


Listening

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, M/M, Masturbation, Nonnies Made Me Do It, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 01:44:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17132681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: The only time Peter sleeps well anymore is when he drifts off listening to Mr. Stark asleep in the next room over. Only one night, what he hears isn’t sleeping at all...





	Listening

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt _either one spying on the other getting off -- on purpose or accidentally, only once or repeatedly..._ Originally posted [here](https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/344797.html?thread=2002723549#cmt2002723549).
> 
> Basically, it’s some voyeurism porn, but with a whole lot of post-IW feelings thrown in for good measure because I can’t help myself.

Peter sinks into his bed at the Avengers compound, grinning as he burrows into his pillows. He’d never admit this to May — because it would make her feel bad, and he hates doing that — but he looks forward to the days when his training sessions run late and he has an excuse to stay over. Not that he doesn’t love her, or home. But ever since Titan his room there feels itchy and cramped, overflowing with memories of a life that doesn’t quite fit anymore.  
  
The room Mr. Stark has set up for him here, on the other hand, is perfect. Big, but not too big. The first one he’d been offered was so large he hadn’t been able to settle in, the empty space cold and sterile. After extensive prodding about if his new room was comfortable and why he looked like he hadn’t gotten any sleep, he’d sheepishly admitted he sort of didn’t like it. A week later this one had been waiting for him instead, crammed with Legos and textbooks. The walls are plastered with posters from his favorite movies, vintage ads and limited edition prints; every time he stays over the latest Stark tech is waiting on his desk (“Yes, to keep, and I don’t want to hear another word about it. You’ve earned it all five times over, kid”). Ned had absolutely lost his shit when he’d sent him snaps.  
  
And the bed! God, he loves this bed. A queen, for no good reason, mattress so perfectly calibrated for his comfort it would be creepy if it wasn’t so great. On top of that, a soft comforter personalized with a thin pattern of gold webs, and silk sheets with red and blue stripes. It’s much nicer than anywhere else he’s ever slept, even the hotel in Germany.  
  
The luxury of it all is cool because it’s exciting and comfortable and he gets to brag about it to Ned and MJ, which is always fun. But what he really likes is that Mr. Stark went to so much effort to put together a perfect home away from home, specifically for him. It makes him feel safe, protected. Noticed.   
  
“Whoa, this is  _perfect_ , Mr. Stark!” he’d exclaimed the first time he’d seen his new space, bounding around examining each hand-picked object with delight. “Do you do everyone’s room? Do you have a secret career as an interior decorator I should know about?”  
  
“Nah, that’s more Pepper’s gig. Uh,  _was_  more Pepper’s gig.” Mr. Stark had cleared his throat, awkward in the way he always is when he slips into talking about Pepper as if she isn’t gone from his life. (Peter still doesn’t really know what happened; it was while he was — well. Not around. And he hasn’t worked up the nerve to ask.)   
  
“But  _you_  did this?” It seemed too perfect to have been anyone else.  
  
“Yeah, I wanted to make sure you felt at home, here.” Mr. Stark had punctuated the thought with a fond smile, letting his gaze linger — so long Peter’s heart had started to patter at double speed, heat working its way from his belly to his face — until, as if shaken out of a trance, he’d suddenly straightened and ripped his eyes away, quickly glancing around the room and adding, “Besides, picking the posters was fun.”   
  
But Peter’s very favorite thing about this space isn’t the posters, or even the bed. It’s that it’s right next to Mr. Stark’s room. Part of his private suite, actually. When Peter had questioned if he really wanted him there — “I’m flattered, but isn’t it invasive or whatever? May is always saying I invade her space” — Mr. Stark had cupped the back of his head, running the tips of his fingers through the hair at the base of his neck.   
  
“Kid,” he’d murmured, suddenly intense, “if it were up to me, I’d never let you out of my sight. Not after — ”  
  
He hadn’t finished the thought. He hadn’t needed to. They never talk about those years, the nightmarish dreamscape Peter floated through, the battles Mr. Stark fought to undo it all. It stays packed away, unspoken. But Peter thinks he sees traces of it in the way Mr. Stark’s eyes linger on him when they talk, how often he reaches out to squeeze his arm or lay a hand on his back, as if making sure he’s really there.  
  
Of course, he has no idea what those touches do to Peter, the electric sparks that fly down his spine every time their skin meets. He’d always thought Mr. Stark was hot — he has  _eyes_  — and once their mentorship had started (which, still crazy, by the way), he’d developed what MJ refers to as “the world’s most cliché crush.” But since Titan, the attraction has taken on new dimensions. It’s a constant ache — a permanent longing to be around him when they aren’t together, a compulsive desire to touch him, magnetic, when they are.   
  
Maybe it’s the side effect of dying in someone’s arms. Or maybe it’s what happens when that someone is the first thing you see when you come back from hell, suddenly alive and gasping desperately for air; when their hand rubbing your back is the first thing you feel, their voice whispering  _you’re okay, I’ve got you_  the first words you hear. Or maybe it’s because Mr. Stark seems just as intent as he is on being close, making contact, skin brushing skin at every opportunity, never giving him a chance to stop wanting, even when he knows those touches can’t possibly be driven by the same kind of longing.   
  
Whatever the reason — and Peter has turned it over in his mind more times than he can count, trying to logic his way out of what feels like a hopeless emotional mess, a constant obsession that’s as annoying as it is exciting — the feeling seems to be here to stay. And so he loves that his room is next to Mr. Stark’s.   
  
As he slips comfortably into half sleep, he pushes aside all the sensory inputs competing for his attention — the clinging cotton of his t-shirt and boxers, the smoothness of the sheets on his bare legs, the hum of constantly running machinery — and focuses in on one thing: the faint sound of Mr. Stark breathing, safe in the other room.

This is the best, the very best part of being in the compound.   
  
It’s  _definitely_  invasive, listening to someone else sleep. He knows that. He’s not stupid. It’s invasive, it’s weird, it’s probably creepy. But it allows him to drift off without panicking when he gets near unconsciousness. The only times his dreams aren’t nightmares are nights like this, when he falls asleep with his breaths matching the one person he knows will always fight for him. He doesn’t get to experience it often; he doesn’t sleep at the compound as much as he’d like, and even when he does, Mr. Stark normally stays down in the lab so late he misses his chance, is forced to make do with the only somewhat better-than-usual sleep he gets thanks to the finely-tuned mattress.  
  
But tonight he’s in luck. They’d spent the evening sparring in the boxing ring, round after round of adrenaline-fueled punching and dodging and grabbing, flesh on flesh, going until Mr. Stark had finally tapped out, complaining that he’s just an old man without powers, he can’t fight all night. After that, he’d wanted to stumble to their rooms almost immediately. (“Don’t you dare tell anyone I went to bed before midnight, okay? God, you’re a good influence. Don’t smile — that translates to you being the lamest high schooler I’ve ever met.”)  
  
And so tonight he’s there, just a wall between them, probably asleep already. It doesn’t take long for Peter to pick up on his breathing, a steady wisp of in-out, in-out, in —  
  
There’s a hitch, and then a low groan, so quiet Peter almost doesn’t hear it. Panicked, he listens closer. Why would Mr. Stark be groaning? His breathing isn’t steady at all, actually, it seems to be erratic, increasing in speed —  
  
Oh.  _Oh_.   
  
Okay, well, if listening to him sleep is invasive, this is  _way_  over the line. He should stop. Definitely. He needs to stop.  
  
But now that his brain has zeroed in on the sound of uneven breaths — getting more uneven by the moment, stumbling and shallow — it’s like he can’t drag his mind away, can’t filter back in the banging of pipes or the rustling of leaves outside, all the things he normally has to try so hard to push to the side. As the little gasps and moans, low and secret, wash over him, the pull toward his mentor becomes hypnotic. Forget electricity down his spine: his entire body is lit up, and it all goes straight to his dick, somehow already rock hard.  
  
He really,  _really_  should get up. Go hide in the bathroom, turn on the shower to block out the sound, yeah, he should definitely —  
  
Mr. Stark lets out another groan, louder this time, more loaded with pleasure, and Peter’s cock twitches in response, a bloom of precome staining his boxers.  _Shit_. His hand has drifted downwards, and without thinking he ghosts his fingers over his hard-on. Even that light touch, through cotton, makes his hips jerk and  _what the fuck_ , when was the last time he was this turned on? Maybe never.  
  
He. Should. Get. Up. But another gasp from the next room hits him like something physical, grabs him in the gut and who is he kidding? Guilt mingling with arousal — but losing, definitely losing — he slips his hand into his boxers and allows himself to listen more closely.  
  
Now that he’s concentrating on it, he can hear the muted creak of the mattress moving, and even — so faint he might be imagining it — a slight, wet, rhythmic thumping, which his mind fleshes out into the image of callused fingers wrapped tight around an impressive cock, thick and long ( _not_  that he’s let his eyes fall when Mr. Stark is wearing tight workout gear, analyzing what might be hidden under the fabric…)  
  
A hiss and gasp come from the other room and he squeezes himself, jolt of stimulation rushing through his body until he’s dripping precome. He rubs his hand across his tip to wet it and begins to stroke, slowly, movements kept tentative out of guilt, as if not fully committing somehow makes this better. Mr. Stark lets out a low hum. He gasps in response, muscles tensing, ass squeezing tight. (Thank _god_ he’s the only one with enhanced senses.)  
  
He moves his hand a little faster, clutches a little harder, lets the sounds coming from the other room mix with fantasy. He imagines what Mr. Stark must look like: covers thrown aside, the blue checked pajama pants he’d been wearing when he poked his head into Peter’s room to say goodnight, pulling him into a gentle hug, hands big and warm on his shoulders — yeah,  _those_  pajamas, which cling to him  _just right_ , must be pushed down around his ankles, black t-shirt gathered up, revealing his toned stomach —  
  
Another moan, stronger and deeper, is followed by an increase in the pace of the springing mattress. Peter arches his back, working faster. He pictures Mr. Stark’s face, eyes closed, mouth open, hair messy, expression tense with anticipation and pleasure —  
  
“ _Fuck_.”  
  
The single word, thick with arousal, rips through Peter; he has to bite his lip to keep from coming. What is Mr. Stark thinking about, as he touches himself? Is he remembering something real — Pepper, maybe, or if that’s too painful, some past fling — or does he indulge in imagined scenarios? He’s definitely not fantasizing about the teenager in the next room. No way.   
  
But as he lowers his hands to cup at his balls, hoping variety will keep him from spilling over the edge, he lets himself pretend that Mr. Stark is also thinking about earlier tonight, when they’d landed with a thud on the mat, Peter pinning him, their hips thrust together, Mr. Stark’s hands firm on his arms, mouths inches apart. That he’d also felt the moment was thick with potential as they’d stared at each other, breathing heavily, seconds ticking away longer than they should have, until Mr. Stark had finally whispered, “You win.”   
  
He moves his hand back to his dick, pushing his boxers down and the comforter off, working himself hard and fast. Pretends the increasingly urgent moans, almost needy, are caused by Mr. Stark thinking about what would’ve happened if, instead of getting up, Peter had leaned in, pressing their lips together. That a particularly loud groan is because his body is also burning with want as he envisions himself flipping their positions, rolling on top, Peter letting him take charge. That he’s imagining pushing his tongue into Peter’s mouth, or sucking on his earlobe until he can’t see straight, or biting marks down his neck, claiming him, muttering  _god kid, I’ve wanted this for so long_ —  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” he hears again. And then, low, growled, so tangled in an ecstatic moan it might not be there at all: “ _Fuck, kid_.”  
  
Peter’s orgasm hits him by surprise, the shock of the word and Mr. Stark’s ravaged gasps barreling over him until his entire body quivers with the euphoria of it. For long seconds he works himself through the pleasure, ignoring the come splattering across his favorite science-pun shirt, fantasy blending into reality. Mr. Stark’s breathing is the only thing he can hear, so loud he almost believes it’s next to his ear; he can almost feel another body draped on top of him, calloused hands bringing him through completion and back to rest.  
  
By the time he reorients himself, body still trembling as other noises leak into his consciousness, a door is clicking closed in the next room. It’s followed by the sound of a shower turning on. Water splatters loudly, blocking out anything else from beyond the wall.  
  
He lays, staring at the ceiling, mind roiling with excitement and guilt and confused hope. Had he imagined it? Mr. Stark, groaning out the nickname reserved for him? Probably. Yeah, probably, he decides more firmly, logic slowly trickling back into his lust-addled thoughts.  _He’d_  been fantasizing about an impossible hook-up.  _He’d_  been imagining Mr. Stark whispering that word, the one that always makes his stomach twist a little. He’d just been so caught up he’d tricked his own ears, that’s the explanation. Obviously. It’s silly to even contemplate the other option.   
  
By the time Mr. Stark emerges from the shower, Peter has changed into clean pajamas and is back in bed, pretty convinced he made the whole thing up, and definitely feeling the shame of having invaded the privacy of a man who trusts him, respects him, thinks of him as the kind of person who doesn’t get off while listening to other people masturbate. He can’t do it again. Should forget about it, pretend it never happened. Yeah, that’s what he’ll do. It never happened.   
  
But as he tries fitfully, unsuccessfully, to fall asleep, he can’t stop himself from focusing back into the other room. This time, Mr. Stark’s breathing is the steady, calming rhythm of sleep: protection and warmth in audible form. He melts into the sound of it, and, as he drifts off, he lets himself pretend those breaths are coming from someone who’s right next to him, sharing his bed, keeping him safe, wanting him, too. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback is always deeply appreciated.


End file.
